


by design

by fatiguedfern



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Animal Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Pre-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-17 08:18:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12361485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatiguedfern/pseuds/fatiguedfern
Summary: He can’t remember when last his world wasn’t dictated by smoke and mirrors.





	by design

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to @dunyazad and @corgasbord for betaing... bless you both.

Passing wind cuts the writhing body of smoke in two, ripping the remaining wisps across the corroded space and brushing up close enough to his face for him to let out a huffed sneeze. Ouma shifts further into the tire he’d chosen as seating’s worn rubber.

Momota takes another drag from his cigarette. Powder white sifts through his teeth, creating an odd contrast between the semi-yellowed white of the enamel. Saihara plucks the smouldering cigarette from Momota’s grip, inhaling a desperate lungful of tar. 

Wordlessly, Saihara offers the burnt out butt to Ouma, who takes it with fumbling fingers. He chokes and sputters on a mouthful of stale smoke. 

Momota laughs, leaning over to thump a large, meaty palm against the skin and bone between his shoulderblades. The throbbing impact aches more than the stinging in his throat, but he thinks that’s okay. At the very least it shows that maybe Momota cared enough not to let him drown in smoke poured from a fire lit by his own hand.

They linger at the dump until the sky turns to a dusty purple dusk and the buzzing in Ouma’s pocket lulls. 

Momota leaves with few words of parting, unraveling the thick, rusted chains strapping his bike frame to the lamppost and pushing off into the lit streets. Ouma can hear worn gears rattle as Momota pedals off into the distance. 

Saihara picks at the skin peeling at his fingertips. Ouma scratches exes into the fraying rubber with the torn ridge of his forefinger’s nail. The silence unnerves him, its quiet waves drifting and wavering at every breath inhaled too deeply. 

“I-I should probably go, Saihara-kun. Do you want to walk back together?” Ouma digs his nail deeper into the rubber, heat seeping into his cheeks despite the cool evening breeze. 

Saihara doesn’t look away from his curled fingers. “No, it’s okay. I don’t have a bike anyway. I wouldn’t want to slow you down. Go on ahead without me.” 

Ouma shouldn’t really care - Saihara doesn’t - but he finds himself burying the unease seething in his stomach. “Oh, alright,” he pauses, because when Saihara looks up he can almost see kinder eyes reflecting the amber light shed from the row of hunkered street lamps, “But, you could- you could ride with me?”

Saihara stands, brushing off the dust clinging to his pants and with a snort says, “You wouldn’t be able to support both of our weight. See you tomorrow.” Ouma watches him shuffle off until his silhouette fades into the flickering gold floodlights. 

“B-bye!” Ouma almost thinks that Saihara might’ve heard him.

Head bowed, Ouma drags his bike from its propped position against the trash heap. The last of the powdered orange lighting the sky bleeds into cobalt as he drags the clattering bike frame alongside him. The smell of burnt tobacco cloys to his skin long after he’d scrubbed his body raw.

.

Acrylic paint smudges between his fingers and splatters onto the desk. The finer details are lost on him, as shaky hands unevenly trace the plain lines of the hollowed profile. 

“Careful! You’ll fuck it up.” Momota’s voice booms within and slams against the classroom walls.

“Here.” His large fingers are surprisingly steady as he guides Ouma’s own. The brush paints bleached lips a brilliant ruby in wide strokes. 

Saihara clears his throat. “I hate to break it to you, but you both fucked it up.”

Ouma glances back, only to see that what they’d coloured had turned out vastly different to what they’d set out to create. Momota grumbles.

“And you couldn’t have said anything earlier, eh?” Momota flicks a dollop of red paint onto Saihara’s forehead and Saihara draws a line of cherry blossom hued paste over the bridge of his nose. 

And then everything is distorted into a kaleidoscope of fragmented colours. And there’s yellow as bright as morning sunlight matting in his hair and Saihara’s smiling and Momota’s laughing. And even if there’s aggression that spoke of more than a mock fight between friends layered within Momota’s movements, and even if there’s a light glinting in Saihara’s eyes that could only be lit by his pasting faces of heroes and villains more tragic than themselves over his companions’ own, it’s okay. 

Because their laughter trills and rumbles, and Ouma’s echoes along with theirs. And he’s glad, and equally terrified, that he has to something akin to friends. 

A mask lies forgotten on the desk, half-done dye drying and setting, reflecting the storm of flung paint.

.

“I- are you sure this is a good idea?”

Saihara answers, though muffled by the smudged crimson lips painted onto his mask. “Of course not. Blowing up a car would never be something that’s considered a good idea.”

Momota fiddles with the ripped up material serving as a fuse. “If you don’t think it’s a good idea, then why’re you even here, you little prick.” 

Saihara sets the bottle of cheap booze onto the railing of the motel they’d chosen as perch’s roof. “This will definitely make for an interesting resume.” 

“What kinda fucked resume would that be?” Momota presses into Saihara’s shoulder.

Ouma speaks up, voice squeaking from disuse. “For Danganronpa, right? You’re planning on entering aren’t you, Saihara-kun?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Saihara hums. 

“It’s still a shitty idea, and maybe if you didn’t have your head stuck so far up Team Danganronpa’s ass you’d see that too.” Momota chews the filter of his hand rolled pacifier.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt but I think the person we’re waiting on arrived.” Ouma tilts his head in the direction of the car pulling up on the sidewalk. 

Momota squints down. “Yeah, that’s them alright.” He swipes the bottle from its precarious position on the railing, uncorking it and preparing the fuse. 

“Smells rank, eh?” Momota asks as he swirls the bottle just below the slits of Ouma’s mask.

“Y-yeah.” Ouma coughs into his painted smile.

“If you two are done, we should get on with it,” says Saihara, his fingers tapping against the railing.

“Yeah, yeah. We’re just gettin’ this cocktail ready.” Momota finishes propping the torn material into the opened bottle. “Alright. Ouma, you wanna do the honours?”

“O-oh, of course.” Ouma rummages through his pocket to find the hurriedly packed lighter. His fingers close around the plastic base. 

He flicks the sparkwheel, once, twice, and finally a third time. His thumbprint dents from the repeated action and the tip of the print burns as sparks finally jolt into a flickering flame. Ouma cups a hand around the fickle warmth, bringing it to the makeshift fuse.

The material darkens and peels away - a white flag fading into the inky night sky. Momota takes the bottle in his hands, more gently than he’d ever gripped Saihara’s and his own. 

“Serves him right for drivin’ a convertible this time of year,” Momota murmurs under his huffed breath as he eyes their target.

Momota’s revealed shoulder tenses and contracts as he tosses the Molotov into the waiting car interior below. Glass shatters and flames spatter and suddenly Momota’s pulling him and Saihara in the direction of the emergency escape stairwell.

They take the steps two at a time. Ouma stumbles. Saihara steadies him by grabbing onto the back of his shirt. Momota slows his pace to momentarily to jerk his head in Ouma’s direction. They keep moving, Momota’s manic laughter trailing behind them. 

Ouma tastes ash and burnt leather. There’s smoke curling over the rooftop. Momota’s laughter is infectious.

.

They grind to a halt at the familiar dumpsite. Saihara clambers off of the back of Momota’s bike. Ouma’s legs hurt from pedalling and his steps are shaky and uncoordinated as they head to their usual corner. 

Momota collapses onto the ground, uncaring of the fragmented plastic scattered around him. Saihara sets about building a fire, gesturing towards Ouma to hand over the lighter. 

The fire crackles. Momota stays unnervingly silent. 

“So, whose car was it that we wrecked?” Saihara asks. His voice is strained. Ouma wonders if it has to do with the excessive smoke he’s inhaled that night. 

Momota’s lips tighten around the cigarette he’d lit with the raging flames. He throws a nearby, severed chair leg into the fire with more might than needed. Embers float outwards, and for a brief, misguided moment Ouma is tempted to catch the drifting fireflies. He closes his eyes and presses down on the red semi-crescent formed at the tip of his thumb.

“A dickhead. That’s all you gotta know.” The croak in Momota’s voice is more prominent than in Saihara’s.

The night fades in relative silence with Ouma drifting to sleep with his head tucked into Saihara’s shoulder. The last of the dying embers reflect their spiralling sins long after Momota’s eyelids had fluttered shut.

.

Ouma checks his wristwatch again. A minute passes, and then another. Ouma can hear the insistent nagging of a chess clock rapping in his ear.

_tick tick tick_

No one relieves the clock beside Ouma’s own of its duty. Ouma’s clock face stays frozen as Momota and Saihara fail to arrive. 

_tick tick tick_

Ouma checks his wristwatch.

_tick tick tick_

He tallies the seconds, drawing lines into the corrupted dirt.

 _tick tick_ \- Saihara walks into Ouma’s line of sight, eyes half shaded by the cap pulled snug over his head. Ouma’s eyes catch on the embroidered Team Danganronpa logo. 

“Sorry I’m late.” It’s his imagination, he knows, but Saihara almost sounds out of breath. 

“It’s fine! I haven’t been waiting long.” Ouma doesn’t need to check his wristwatch to know the hours passed. 

“So Momota-kun hasn’t pitched up yet?” Saihara sets his backpack onto the ground and settles into the hollow of a tire. 

“N-no… I thought you two might have walked together.” It’s illogical, they both know. Momota lives a good twenty minute walk away from their neighbourhood; on the worse side of town. Saihara doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve got a surprise for you guys,” Saihara pats the bag at his feet, “but I’d rather wait for Momota-kun before unveiling it.” 

He and Saihara play naughts and crosses, scratching x’s and o’s into the blackened remains of their campfire. Saihara is more often than not the one to have his symbols align, and Ouma’s more than content enough with that.

Momota arrives with sweat matting at his brow and staining his vest. “Sorry, sorry,” Momota rubs at his neck almost bashfully. “I was runnin’ late.”

“It’s fine,” Saihara says as he stands, pulling his bag along with him. “You didn’t miss anything. There’s something I want to show you both though.”

Saihara fumbles around in his bag. Ouma almost wishes he didn’t find what he was looking for. 

The handgun’s a small thing, barely larger than Saihara’s spread palm. 

“Jesus Christ,” Momota’s voice lowers to a deeper baritone. “A gun? What the fuck are you plannin’ to do with a gun? How’d a prissy little kid like you even get your hands on it?”

Saihara raises an eyebrow. “I found it in Uncle’s office. Thought to use it for target practice.” 

Ouma gulps. “I… don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Saihara laughs, and he knows that he’s just imagining it, but Ouma thinks he hears nerves straining in the trill. “And you, Momota-kun? Scared?” 

Momota’s fist clenches. “Of fuckin’ course not.” 

They line up a series of worn glass bottles. Momota heaves a deep breath as he pulls the trigger. 

_tick tick tick_ Ouma hears the sound of the trigger being pulled over the load bursts of leaden bullets flying from their chamber. 

Momota misses more often than not. Saihara reloads the gun with a fresh cartridge. 

“Hm, I want to try something if you don’t mind. Ouma, would you like to shoot or hold our target?” Saihara begins rifling through his backpack again.

Ouma remembers bullets embedding themselves in the brick wall in front of them. “I-I’ll hold the target… or shoot? Whichever you prefer, Saihara-kun.”

“You can shoot then. We’ll take this as a test run.” Saihara pulls out a portable cage, pulling out on of the two mice by its tail.

“Jesus fucking Christ! You can’t be serious?” Momota asks incredulously.

“O-of course I am.” Saihara’s tone is warbled. “Are you scared, huh?” Ouma isn’t entirely sure whether it’s Momota he’s phrasing the question to.

“Let’s.. let’s just do it.” Ouma gulps down the dryness in his throat. “Get it over with, I guess.” 

Momota silently hands over the gun. He holds onto Ouma’s hand just a bit longer than necessary. 

The heavy metal rattles in as Ouma’s hans shake. The rat swings from its tail - which is still tightly grasped within Saihara’s fist.

Ouma steadies his breathing.

_tick tick tick_

His hands stop trembling.

_tick tick tick ___

__A shot rings clear. The mouse squirms free. Saihara holds the bleeding tip of his ear._ _

__“Fuck,” Momota murmurs before running over to Saihara, pressing a ripped chunk of his vest to his ear._ _

__Momota leaves shortly after. Saihara frees the mouse into one of many trash heaps._ _

__“I better get going,” Ouma says as he’s already propped his bike onto his hip._ _

__“Wait! Would you, would you mind giving me a lift?” There’s a desperation to his voice that both surprises Ouma and simultaneously feels as natural as his breath hitching._ _

__“S-sure.”_ _

__Saihara clings to him more tightly than necessary. And even if they stop regularly, and even if smoking guns still taint their memories, it’s nice._ _

__._ _

__The day before Saihara auditions for the 53rd season of Danganronpa they camp out at the dump, gorging themselves on half-heated canned food._ _

__There’s a crust of white powder forming around Momota’s nose. Ouma doesn’t mention it, nor does Saihara. And when he spasms awake, face pale and stricken, they don’t mention that either._ _

__And when morning comes, and Saihara finds himself with two extra bodies dragging behind him, they don’t mention it. For as pale and clammy as his skin may be, it still presses familiarly into Saihara and Ouma’s own. Ouma wonders if the smoke they’d blown would linger._ _

__._ _

__The wall clock reflects three anxious faced candidates on the glass screen covering the clock’s face. Saihara runs through a list of mock interview questions and Momota chews a bit too loudly on his nicotine gum._ _

__Ouma loops through his memories while he still has half a mind to think them._ _

__He wonders when he’d grown so attached to Momota and Saihara. Attached enough to turn a silly thought of ending a warped game - for surely that was what Danganronpa was at its very core - into a reality._ _

__He can’t really recall the precise moment. Had it been the day he’d stumbled into class, drenched by heavy downpour, and been forced to the back of the class along with a boy with hidden eyes and another with crass words? Or had it been the next, where they’d all huddled beneath the same umbrella in a vain attempt to take cover from the icy storm?_ _

__He can’t recall the exact day, for his attachment had grown so inherently natural. It seemed most days as familiar as the glaze coating Saihara’s eyes, or the rough calluses on Momota’s knuckles._ _

__They’re called one for one, and then they’re exiting the building, and Momota slings his arms over their shoulders, because surely they’d be dead soon enough and pretences didn’t matter all that much. Ouma’s happy to live as is if not._ _


End file.
